Two Weeks Earlier
The message was from the Wexler family’s personal assistant, brief and formal. They admired her work, had seen the feature in Vows & Venues, and requested a consultation for the wedding of their daughter, Chloe Wexler.
Ava scrolled down for the details, her mind already racing with venue possibilities, floral concepts, and logistical frameworks. The budget would be astronomical. The guest list, a who’s who of society. The creative freedom, unparalleled.
And then she saw it. Tucked beneath the bride’s name, a simple, declarative line.
Groom: Marcus Thorne.
The name hit her like a physical blow. The air rushed from her lungs, leaving a hollow, ringing silence in its place. The glossy magazine slid from her lap and landed on the plush rug with a soft, muffled thud. The scent of peonies suddenly seemed cloying, suffocating.
Marcus Thorne.
It couldn’t be. It was a common enough name. A coincidence. Her mind scrambled for denial, a desperate attempt to keep the walls of her fortress from cracking.
She typed the names—Chloe Wexler Marcus Thorne—into a search engine, her fingers stiff and cold. The results flooded the screen instantly. Society pages, engagement announcements, photos.
And there he was.
Older, yes. The boyish charm she remembered had hardened into a devastatingly handsome confidence. He wore a tailored suit that probably cost more than her first car, his arm possessively around a stunning, diamond-draped blonde. Chloe Wexler.
But the eyes… they were the same. The same deep, molten-chocolate brown that could crinkle at the corners with laughter or darken with an intensity that had once made her feel like the only woman in the world.
The man who had built her up just to tear her down. The man who had held her ambition in his hands, examined it, and declared it a flaw.
The memory, sharp and unwelcome, sliced through the carefully constructed calm of her present.
She was twenty-two again, sitting in a sticky vinyl booth of a twenty-four-hour diner, the dregs of their shared coffee cold in her mug.
He’d just broken up with her, his voice maddeningly gentle as he delivered the fatal blow.
“It’s not that I don’t love you, Ava,” he’d said. “But your life is always about the next goal, the next step on the ladder. You’re always reaching. . . It’s. . . too much for me. I need someone who can just… be. ”
Too much. The words had branded themselves onto her soul.
She had taken that hurt and that anger and used them as kindling.
She had built her business, her meticulously planned life, not just for herself, but as a silent, defiant rebuttal to his judgment.
She had become everything he claimed was “too much,” and she had succeeded.
And now, he was back.
He was marrying a Wexler, a woman whose entire existence was a testament to ambition and legacy.
And he needed Ava Morgan, the “too ambitious” girl he’d left behind, to plan the perfect day.
Her first instinct was a visceral, guttural no. Delete the email. Block the sender. Pretend it never happened. Protect the sanctuary.
Planning his wedding would be a special kind of masochism.
She stood up, pacing. What would happen if she said no?
She’d be turning down the single biggest opportunity of her career.
She would be letting him, and the memory of his rejection, dictate the limits of her success. He would have won. Again.
What if she said yes?
The thought was terrifying. And then, exhilarating.
What if she walked into that consultation room not as the heartbroken girl from the diner, but as Ava Morgan, owner of Perfectly Planned. What if she treated him with nothing but cool, unshakable professionalism?
He thought she was too much. Fine. She would give him too much. Too much competence, too much unflappable poise. She would be undeniable.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face. This one had teeth.
She walked back to her desk, her movements filled with a newfound, steely purpose. Her fingers, now steady and sure, moved over the keyboard.
Dear Ms. Vance,
Thank you for your inquiry. I am very familiar with both the Thorne and Wexler families and would be honored to be considered for this prestigious event.
Perfectly Planned would be delighted to discuss the Thorne-Wexler wedding further. Please find my availability for an initial consultation below.
Sincerely,
Ava Morgan
She hit ‘send’ before she could second-guess herself.
She just hoped they wouldn’t ambush her.
The single click echoed in the silent office, a gunshot signaling the start of a war she never asked for, but one she was now determined to win. Regardless.